“My suit is ruined,” Izuku says, pouting, eyeing the blood-soaked tatters across the room that he hadn’t had the heart to get rid of yet. He’s hardly moved from his bed in the last two days, only getting up for bathroom breaks. His mom—or Dabi, when she’s at work—bring all his meals to him.
It’s surreal to see Dabi in the role of caretaker, even if he’s only nice about it when his mom is watching.
Today, Dabi has no qualms about abusing him while he spoon feeds him soup. Izuku has tried to tell everyone that spoon feeding him is overkill, but the fact remains that the slightest movement of his arms pulls uncomfortably at his slowly healing skin. He’s going stir crazy. Dabi contacted a less than legal healer yesterday, but he hasn’t heard anything back yet.
“You needed an upgrade, anyway. You need more protective lining if you’re going to get stabbed all the time.” Dabi smacks his forehead with the flat back of the spoon, errant drops of miso splattering Izuku’s cheeks.
“It was one time! And I didn’t get stabbed. It was a swoosh!”
“You nearly gave your mother a heart attack.”
“Ugh.” Izuku throws his head back against his pillows, and a small lance of pain shoots through his chest. His painkillers must be wearing off. How does Dabi walk around with staples all over his body so casually? “You sound like my dad.”
His dad had, in fact, said the very same thing when they talked yesterday. It was strange. Izuku couldn’t remember the last time his father had sounded so strict with him, so worried about his safety. Izuku didn’t want to admit that part of him was glad for his injury because even if his dad was reaming him out for being reckless, at least it proved he cared. He’d never share that thought with anyone, though.
“I’m your new dad. I’ve practically moved in,” he says smugly.
“Pervert. I can’t believe you’re still saying all this now that you’ve met my mom.”
“Why not? She’s a fucking treasure.”
Izuku seriously considers ripping his stitches and tackling Dabi to the ground, but before he can summon the will to injure himself further, there’s a knock at the door. They both freeze, as if even breathing too heavily will alert the person on the other side of the door of their presence.
“Ignore it,” Izuku whispers. Whoever it is is unexpected, and therefore, unwelcome. Dabi nods, but the knocking turns into banging, and suddenly Izuku knows exactly who it is.
“I know you’re in there, Deku!”
Izuku sighs, smacking his head against his pillow again.
“Think he’ll leave if we just don’t answer?”
“Not a chance. Kacchan’s stubborn.”
Dabi stands and pushes Izuku’s bedding up to his chin, then he crosses the room to hide any traces of illicit vigilante activity.
“Look sick and pathetic. We’ll nip this shit in the bud, once and for all.”
Izuku is slightly panicking, but he does as he’s told. It’s a good thing that his skin is still a little pallid, his hair a bit greasy. It lends credence to the story his mom fed the school—that he’s home sick with the flu.
“What?” Dabi barks the second he opens the door. Bakugo stands, somehow looking smug without actually doing anything, a few school books in his hand. The déjà vu of the moment isn’t lost on either of them.
“Where the hell is Deku? Why are you always here?”
“Izuku is sick,” he says, emphasizing his given name, mostly to piss off his little boyfriend, but also because he had to remind himself not to call him Yami. It seems he over-corrected. Bakugo looks momentarily dumbstruck at the sound of his name. “Told you, I’m his damn babysitter. Those books for him?”
“I’m not leaving until I see him,” Bakugo growls, puffing his chest out and standing his ground.
“Why? You worried?” Dabi smirks at Bakugo’s scowl. “That’s cute.”
Bakugo takes a deep breath, presumably to yell a long string of expletives, but Yami makes a show of coughing loud enough that they both hear it.
“Just let him in! I want my homework.”
Without another word, Bakugo shoves past Dabi and makes a bee line for Yami’s bedroom, like he’s familiar with the apartment. He can’t say he’s surprised, but it does make him wonder. Dabi isn’t one to concern himself with the dramatics of twelve year olds, but he’s never seen a relationship as strange as theirs. It makes protectiveness rise in his chest—a wholly unwelcome emotion. He saunters after the blonde, rolling his eyes.
“Thanks for my books. Can we skip the interrogation, though? I’m tired,” Yami says tightly, his fists gripping the top edge of the comforter, pulling it closer to his chin.
Bakugo huffs, and in one quick movement yanks Yami’s covers completely off the bed, only to reveal Yami’s dumb tuxedo t-shirt and his plaid boxers. Yami gives a jolt in surprise, and Dabi notes that he hides the pain that movement caused pretty well.
“K-Kacchan! What the hell?” Yami shrieks, his face the shade of a ripe tomato. Bakugo’s not faring much better. Dabi can see the tips of his ears turning pink. He’d be a fool not to capitalize on all the awkward, hormonal teen embarrassment around him.
“You could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife.” He fans himself, really hamming it up. “Try to keep it in your pants til he’s feeling better, kid.”
Yami makes a sound like an ancient dial-up connection, and Bakugo tosses the wadded up comforter in his fists back on the bed.
“Fuck off!” The high blush on his cheeks does little to make him look threatening, and Dabi chuckles.
“I’ll let Miss Inko know you brought his homework. Now, beat it.”
Bakugo, for once, doesn’t need to be told twice, his embarrassment propelling him to the door at a breakneck pace. He shoves the booksat Dabi’s chest, and gets the hell out of dodge. He gives Yami a thumbs up, smirking at the please, kill me look on his face before he escorts Bakugo out the door.
Katsuki walks home in a state of shock, his face still warm and probably a gross shade of blotchy pink. He thought for sure Deku’s absence at school was because of something nefarious. He hates being wrong.
What he hates even more is that he’s unable to get the visual of Deku’s legs out of his head. It’s been a long time since he’s seen him out of his school uniform, but he wasn’t prepared for the thick cords of muscle in his thighs and calves. He knew he was training for something, but he never imagined he was training hard enough to grow out of his skinny, little nerd body.
Katsuki huffs, pissed that finding out what Deku’s up to has proven to be more difficult than he previously thought.